I went to SoulCycle and All I Got was a Sore Vagina

One girl’s tale about everyone’s favorite workout.

I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid. There, I said it. The droves of Lululemon-clad men and women who file into SoulCycle in herds four times a week would probably come after me with their clip-in-shoes in hand, ready to beat me over the head for saying so. I thought about writing this article under a pseudonym out of fear, but I decided to stand up proud and announce to the world: I hate SoulCycle.

Okay, so hate is a strong word. There’s something invigorating about sweating like a buxom yenta in a Hungarian bathhouse and hearing encouraging words screamed at you over the heart-pumping beats of Katy Perry.

Actually, scratch the second part. My ears were throbbing by the end of the 45-minute workout.

I enter the extraordinarily clean waiting room. It’s like gynecologist’s office meets start-up: pristine white walls and floors and just enough neon signage to make me feel like either I’m about to walk into a rave or receive a $5,000 bonus for referring an engineer. They take me on a tour of the facilities, and I feel like Broad City’s Alana walking into Soulstice. Fancy lotions abound. Tampons, disposable razor blades, shaving cream, deodorant, and hair ties adorn the showers. “Can I live here?” I wonder, as I consider siphoning lotion into one of the plastic bags offered for soaked leggings and imagine the dirty carpeted apartment I share with three other people and a shedding cat.

An etiquette sign is seen at the SoulCycle studio in Walnut Creek (Jane Tyska/Bay Area News Group).

I look down at my leggings scored from the Marshall’s sale rack with a hole in the knee and my oversized tee recycled from an ex-boyfriend’s closet. Next to me, a svelte nineteen-year-old ties back her waist-length hair and removes her shirt to reveal her $95 sports bra, chiseled abs, and ample breasts.

And then they summon us into the cycling room. And I realize I was right about the rave part.

In the dark room with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and red lights, an attendant helps to adjust the bike to my height and then spends about eight minutes trying to explain to me how to clip my shoe into the pedal. Eight minutes of “just push your toe in and pretend that you’re squishing a bug.” Maybe in my panic I forget how one squishes a bug. Can bugs really be squished? Or maybe the verb is squooshed? Maybe I’m the bug? I can’t get my shoe to connect with the pedal and consider making a run for it but notice the droves of SoulCyclers fist-bumping their way into the workout room. It’s too late. She ends up grabbing my foot and forcefully twisting and pushing it into the little peg. Now, I’m really trapped. There’s no way out, no matter how hard I try to squish that bug again, my foot isn’t gonna come free for the next 45 minutes.

Here we go.

The lights go out and our instructor, a perky blonde, walks in to get the party started. I’m reminded of the VJ’s of 90’s MTV days.

It takes mere minutes before I’m covered in sweat and wheezing like a broken chew-toy that your friend’s bulldog won’t let go of. She urges us to “push harder” and “give me two full turns” (to you newbies, this means upping the intensity so it feels like you’re climbing a hill). I spend most of the class pantomiming quarter turns but really just spinning my legs to the beat of the music. I look around to see if the other cyclers are really turning their knobs but realize if I look left or right I might lose my balance and fall off the bike — feet still firmly planted in the stirrups.

Lucky for me, I’m pretty coordinated, so I can follow along with most of the pushups on the handlebars (How are these really pushups, anyway? Most of your body weight is on the bike seat), left leans, right leans, standing up in the saddle, and then tapping your booty back down. The older gentleman to my right wasn’t so lucky, poor guy.

I find that these choreographed moves are really just a ploy to get us to stop thinking about our endlessly turning legs. It works. When we grab the measly three-pound weights (to be fair: you can choose heavier weights, but I probably would have passed out) and extend them to our sides and over our heads like Jane Fonda, I forget that my legs haven’t stopped moving for the past 25 minutes and that my ragged T-shirt is probably disintegrating under the deluge of my sweat.

But then, something miraculous happens. Our instructor shouts out “don’t forget — you can’t trip over something that’s behind you” and it starts connecting to other aspects of my life. I feel like I’m in a mindfulness seminar and I begin to taste some of that Kool-Aid.

And after the final push, the instructor turns up the lights and allows us to stop the incessant pedaling. After a quick stretch, the music turns off and my ears are ringing. People high five each other and leave the studio, but I’m still stuck in my seat. Forget the bug — I just un-velcro my shoes and leave them attached to the pedals as I stumble out of the room in my soaked socks.

I walk, no, hobble into the lobby, wondering why my nether regions feel like they got the best workout of my whole body. The next day, my arms aren’t sore, my legs feel fine, but my groin — I can hardly sit down.

But here’s the thing. I’m stubborn as f*ck and competitive as hell, so I’ll be going back for more classes until I can actually make it through the 45-minutes and still be able to breathe. Plus, you know, the instructor made a good point about tripping over things that are behind you. But maybe next time I’ll wear padded bike shorts.

Looking for an adventure this weekend?
Sign up for The Weekender and once a week (no more, no less) we'll send you an email chock full of tips and tidbits to kick-start your planning process. We just need your email.